So much is happening at once. Just today John with an H asked if my address was the same and just today I discovered some patches of nasty mold and a sizable drip coming from my upstairs neighbors’ washing machine. It’s spread to both sides of the wall and one patch in particular looks like the deadly black kind. And now that you mention it, I’ve woken up the past few nights with a sore throat. I’d been waiting for a cold that never came, turns out I was just inhaling spores. They’re not required to fix the leak or clean up the damage, so if it stays this bad, I’ll have to move. But for the time being, I figured the critters at least would be better off elsewhere, so I packed up all the animals—and I do mean all: 3 glass tanks and 2 cat carriers—and hauled everyone over to Mom’s.

When I drove back to the apartment after unloading my Dr. Doolittle-mobile, the moon was full of blood. I was a psych major at Carleton and we’re not supposed to believe in things like superstition and synchronicity—too much like dealing in fate—but I can’t deny that things have felt unusually, eerily portentous lately. Maybe it’s something about the time of year. The air is thicker and there’s lots of night-time driving with the windows down. Maybe all the humidity goes to my head—curling my hair and giving me crazy ideas about happenstance and serendipity.

The other day, for example, I was driving home from work and saw a guy wearing sunglasses, driving a convertible and smoking a cigarette. “What a douchebag,” I thought to myself. Then about half a second later I realized the back of his head looked suspiciously familiar. I trailed him for a couple of blocks and when I finally pulled behind him at a red light, I was certain. I got out my cell phone and called Jon without an H. Just after he’d fished the phone out, he glanced up at his rearview mirror and saw me. Couple minutes later, we met at Highland Coffee and got caught up. He graduated, has an agent, and is leaning towards New York. Talked turned to creative endeavors and I mentioned to him my bizarre form of writer’s block. No shortage of words—it’s ideas that I have trouble coming up with. He immediately launched into the compelling true story of the Collyer brothers in Harlem and after a couple days of research, I’m totally hooked. We’re thinking of writing a script. Oddly enough, I met Jerry Lotz the day before Jon and his convertible pulled in front of me, and he—Jerry—told me all about the seven houses he owns—bought and paid for—and every one filled to the ceiling with junk. Antiques, crap, collectibles, figurines, garbage, pamphlets, signs, and all manner of pop culture paraphernalia.

But back to my blood moon. I’d always heard that blood in the moon was an ill omen. That it meant death. With my spores floating about, I must admit death isn’t the furthest thing from my mind and I’m a little creeped out. Honestly I was hoping for something less pedestrian, but we all do, and we never can pick the means. There’s often not much dignity in dying, but I’m still arrogant and foolish enough to hope for something slightly more spectacular to send me off. Langley Collyer was crushed to death under a newspaper booby trap and then eaten by rats. Death by mold would just be embarrassing.

EDIT 7/7/09: Still alive!